


Bottoms Up

by impossibleamypond



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedy, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Romance, Slice of Life, The Millennium Falcon is a dive bar and they're all just trying to save it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-13 04:32:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5694886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibleamypond/pseuds/impossibleamypond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the untimely death of her boss, Rey finds herself the proud new owner of the <i>Millennium Falcon</i>, the most charming hole in the wall this side of the river. Determined to keep the bar afloat, she enlists the help of friends both new and old in the hopes of recapturing the bar's old spirit and saving it from the clutches of a big league real estate firm known as the First Order, whose CEO just so happens to be the estranged son of her former boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Despite the forecast for the day, it doesn’t rain. 

In fact, the sun shines brightly, almost mockingly, in a cloudless blue sky. Somehow, it’s appropriate, if not the least bit ironic, that the day she’s never felt more cold and hollow inside is the one where the sun stretches its fingers toward the earth in an attempt to warm her. It’s too late in the season for it to be consider sweltering, but it’s still hot: sweat beads at the back of her neck, along the sides of her face, and at her hairline. 

Gathered around the open grave are a handful of people, all of their faces familiar, and not just for their mournful expressions either. A priest, clad in all black, just like everyone else, recites a commonplace scripture from the small bible in his hands, though not once during the whole ceremony does he glance down at the pages. Vaguely, she wonders how many of these ceremonies he does every week, every month, every year. 

For the entire duration of the funeral, she’s been able to hold back her sobs, mostly by biting the inside of her cheek so hard that the physical pain chases away the emotional pain; the twinge of copper on the back of her tongue oddly grounding. That is, until the priest concludes his eulogy and gestures towards her with an open hand. 

Her knees shake violently as she stumbles to the lip of the grave. If she wants, she could peer over the edge and see the gleaming top of the casket six feet below, but her stomach swoops at the thought; bile coats the inside of her mouth. She presses her lips into a thin line, stooping down to pick up a handful of dirt, which she tosses into the freshly dug hole. It hits the casket with a dull _thunk_ , which makes her stomach lurch. 

Tears pool in her eyes, making a watery landscape of her vision, and she’s not aware she’s been holding her breath until a warm, calloused hand slips into her own and squeezes tightly. Gasping, she clings to Poe’s hand, desperate for the warmth radiating from his palm, a warmth she hasn’t felt in days. Not since...

Gently, he leads her away from the grave to make room for other mourners. Once they’re out of earshot, when she can sob about how unfair it is that he’s dead and he’s left her all alone without sounding like an insolent child, his arm slithers around her shoulders and she falls into his chest, tears saturating the front of his crisp white button up.

* 

The bar isn’t crowded by any means, but the turnout for the memorial is more than either she or Poe had been anticipating. Men and women alike are gathered in small groups around the few tables scattered across the floor, nursing drinks as they reminisce about the recently deceased. Most of these people are complete strangers to her, though every single one of them seems to know who she is as they shake her hand and offer truly heartfelt condolences.

How they know her, she has no idea, but it’s not the right time or place to ask. 

Besides, she can’t leave Poe alone behind the bar, not with this many customers waiting to be served, mourners who are eager to drink away some of the pain, a sentiment she shares with them. 

Her hand trembles a little as she pours out another drink, sloshing some of the amber liquid over the edge of the glass. Muttering a curse under her breath, she pushes the glass towards the woman who ordered it, a thin woman with a long face and large, green eyes. The woman smiles her thanks, and Rey wishes she could return it, but she can’t seem to make the muscles in her face cooperate, so she nods her head instead. 

To her right, Poe is taking care of the small group of college kids who come in every Thursday, a bunch of hipsters who find the bar to be charmingly quirky instead of the hole-in-the-wall that it is, but all the same, Rey is glad to see them. It makes her glad to know that they care enough to show up for the memorial, even though there are no drink specials scribbled in her cramped handwriting on the sidewalk board. 

A disgruntled growl to her right alerts her to Chewie’s presence. An imposing man of impressive height with an even more impressive beard, there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by since she began working at the _Millennium Falcon_ that Chewie hasn’t been there, overseeing the day to day running of the small bar alongside his other duty: intimidation. She’s also never heard him speak more than a handful of words as he prefers to point and grunt to get his point across, which he does quite effectively. 

He raises a thick, dark eyebrow at her and she nods, watching as he gets up from his customary seat at the end of the bar (the stool besides his stands eerily empty) to switch off the old jukebox in the corner. If the sudden quiet perturbs anyone, they say nothing, only look about in mild confusion. 

A tremor of terror races through her, all of the color draining from her face as the quiet talk dissolves into complete silence. Rey gulps, throwing a nervous look to her fellow bartender.

“Hey,” says Poe as he sidles up next to her, a warm and welcomed presence, just like his arm as he drapes it over her shoulder comfortingly. He pitches his voice low enough so only she can hear him. “You okay to do this?” 

“Yeah,” she replies, nodding a little _too_ vigorously. “Yeah, I am.”

“You sure?” The look he gives her isn’t doubtful; he’s offering her a way out, a path away from the pain that this might bring, but the past few days have already been the worst in her life, what’s a few more minutes of suffering honestly going to do to her? 

Again, she nods, her tongue too heavy in her mouth to speak, and Poe gives her shoulder a tight, comforting squeeze before stepping back. It’s only once he’s stepped away from her that she’s aware that every eye in the place is focused on her; it’s not so quiet that she could hear a pin drop, but her heart has never sounded so loud as it thumps its lively beat. 

Expelling a soft breath, Rey tries to adopt some of Poe’s easy confidence, but fails miserably; she might have a level head on her shoulders and a resolve to rival any bull, but speeches, especially of the emotion kind, are beyond her. 

“I wanted to start out by saying thank you all for coming out today. I know a lot of you have traveled a long way to be here with us - and on such short notice, and truly, I mean it from the bottom of my heart when I say that we - me and Chewie and Poe and everyone else here at the _Millennium Falcon_ \- appreciate it more than words can properly express.” 

There’s a gentle murmur among the crowd, with several people waving away her gratitude with dismissive hands. Most of them sip at their drinks, watching her with keen interest. At the back of the crowd, she spots Poe’s head of dark curls as he wends his way through the sea of bodies, a tray full of shots balanced precariously on his palm. He stops every few feet to make sure that everyone has one. 

Rey licks her lips and continues, feeling a bit awkward as she speaks. “I, uh, I’m not very good at making these types of speeches - or any speeches, to be honest with you, which is why I’m not going to bore you with the minute details. We all have stories that are entirely unique to our experiences with him because he is - _was_ \- entirely unique - the kind of person that you’re lucky enough to have come into your life and change you for the better.”

A sad smile tugs at the corner of her mouth and she lets it happen, just as she lets the tears flood her eyes and lets her voice tremble with the force of her grief as she talks. 

“I was lucky enough to know him for six years, which isn’t as long as I would’ve liked, but it’s more time than I feel like I deserved. I wish I could say that he was the sweetest, kindest person on the face of the planet, but we all know that’s not true: he could be mean and he could be harsh, but he was honest. Always, always honest. He was also capable of great compassion and good humor, and he was probably the most trustworthy, hardworking, smart-mouthed son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

Despite herself, she laughs, and so do most of the people gathered in the bar. Her head spins a little as she looks out on all of them, unable to comprehend how one person could touch so many lives deeply enough for them to attend his memorial; she can count on one hand how many people would turn out for _her_ funeral. But this? This is unreal. 

Though her spirit is heavy with grief, her heart soars, filling with love and appreciation for these strangers that share in her grief and remembrance of him.

Clearing her throat, Rey takes the small shot glass from the bar and holds it aloft. “To Han Solo, the scruffiest nerfherder there ever was.”

There’s scattered laughter, but mostly silence as the crowd mirrors her actions and lift their glasses, as well as their voices, to their fallen friend. 

“To Han!”

The shot of whiskey does little to numb the pain that radiates from the gaping wound in her heart, but it _does_ burn her throat. 

Unsurprisingly, the first shot is hardly the last shot she takes that night, though the last one she remembers is ordered for her by an older Black gentleman with a warm, smooth voice and a thick mustache speckled grey. He starts to tell her a story about how he busted Han out of some dingy gambling den in Las Vegas, but she doesn’t remember the rest of the tale.

*

When the bar begins to spin and the tales of Han Solo’s renegade days become too much, Rey excuses herself for a moment, stumbling a little as she walks to the side door. She shoves it open, stepping out into the night.

The evening air is cool and crisp as it dances over her flushed skin, threading through the damp hairs that cling to the back of her sweat slicked neck. She lifts her hair away from her skin, exposing the whole of neck to the air. Sighing, she leans against the rough brick wall and closes her eyes, the weight of the last few days returning to its precarious balance on her shoulders. 

As much as she would love to forget every shitty thing that’s happened over the last week, she can’t. No amount of alcohol could ever scour the memory of him staggering to the floor, a hand clasped over his chest and the other reaching out for someone - for _her_. An involuntary shudder passes through her as she recalls the shallow, ragged breaths and the long groans of agony as Poe shouted into the phone at the 911 dispatcher, Chewie having disappeared to pull his car around to the front of the building. 

By the time Poe hung up and Chewie burst through the door, prepared to take Han to the hospital himself, the man in question was gone, his hand limp in Rey’s grasp. 

Her stomach lurches and she spews the contents of her stomach, which is mostly alcohol and a little bit of the chili cheese dip that Snap brought with him, all over the pavement. With a long, low groan, she turns and braces her hands against the wall, her head bowed as she gulps down greedy breaths of air in between bouts of vomiting. 

Three more time she pukes before she’s emptied her stomach completely. 

Rey drags the back of her hand across her mouth, wiping away the remnants of her vomit, and sighs. It takes a few moments for her to right herself. She tugs at the hem of her skirt, checks her blouse for any signs of sick, and runs her fingers through her hair, which, thankfully, contains no traces of vomit whatsoever. 

Finally, she’s ready to go back inside and face the decidedly drunken crowd. She’s ready to fix that brave face upon her countenance and pretend like she’s not withering away on the inside if only for the sake of the people in the bar. After all, she’s not the only one grieving, even if she’s alone in her own personal brand of grief. 

Giving herself a little shake, Rey reaches for the door, but a peculiar sound catches her attention and she turns, looking towards the source of the sound - the mouth of the alley. Cats, raccoons, and all other sorts of creatures aren’t entirely uncommon in alleyways, so for a moment, she thinks that it might have been an animal upsetting a garbage can, but then she hears the high pitched double chirp of someone unlocking their car with a key fob. 

Against her better judgment, her curiosity is piqued, and she jogs to the alley opening, expecting to find one of the drunk patrons fumbling with their keys. Mentally, she prepares herself for the struggle of convincing said drunk to come back inside and wait for either her or Poe to call them a cab, but all of her persuasive words flee her mind as she catches sight of bright red tail lights as the car turns over the engine. 

The car looks familiar; she’s definitely seen it parked outside of the _Millennium Falcon_ , usually across the street and a few spaces down, but she doesn’t know who it belongs to, which is why she doesn’t bother calling out in an attempt to stop the driver before they peel away from the curb and race off into the night. 

Frowning, Rey waits until the car has zipped around the corner and disappeared from sight before releasing a long, low sigh and heading back indoors.


	2. Chapter One

A loud, raucous shout sweeps through the bar and Rey, who’d been bent over a crossword puzzle for the last half an hour, jumps in her seat, knocking over her beer bottle. Thankfully, it’s empty and the glass doesn’t shatter, so there’s no mess to clean up, but her heart hammers against her rib cage and there’s a low buzz of anxiety pulsing through her veins. 

She throws an irritated look at Snap, who grins widely at her. “The Dreadnaughts just scored,” he informs her, a gleeful note in his voice as he leans over the counter to receive a high-five from one of the patrons. 

Most of the faces in the crowd are familiar, though a few are new to her, which pleases Rey. It’s always nice to know that the Millennium Falcon can still draw in new customers. 

“You have money on the game?” she asks once Snap drifts back over to her end of the bar.

“A little bit.” He plucks her empty bottle from the counter, tosses it in the rubbish bin behind him, goes to her a new one. “The match was scoreless for the first two periods, so it’s nice to see the ‘Naughts moving the ball. At this point, it’d take a miracle for the Ranphyxes to come back from this.”

She smiles in thanks when he sets a new beer down in front of her, but says nothing on his commentary. 

Sports have never held much of an interest for Rey, but she has enough knowledge of the sport to know two very important things: the Dreadnaughts are the kriffin’ best and the Ranphyxes are the absolute scum of the universe, the spawn of Satan, born in the ass crack of Hell and reeking of shit and brimstone - at least, according to Han, who loved the game and did his level best to teach her the basic rules despite the fact she had little to no desire to learn them. Still, she pretended to enjoy the game and supported his favorite team - buying him tee shirts and caps and scarves with the Dreadnaughts mascot for his birthday and even attending a few games with him over the years - all because it made him happy. 

Before she can dwell on the thought, however, Marty, an older gentleman with a particularly gruff voice and a penchant for cheap whiskey, cuts into the conversation. “Serves them right, those wily little bastards! Cheaters, they are!”

“Oh, don’t get me started, Marty! Don’t get me started!” cries Snap, who focuses all of his attention on the conversation at hand, leaving Rey to retreat back to her solitary spot at the end of the bar and finish her crossword. 

A part of her wants to pack up her things and call it a night, but she promised Snap that she would help him with the liquor order before she left and since she bailed on him the last time, leaving him to take stock of everything all by himself, she’d feel bad if she did it again. As sad as the fact is, she doesn’t have anything better to do than spend her free time at the bar anyway; she doesn’t know where Poe is because he hasn’t answered his phone all day, Karé is out of town for the weekend, and she doesn’t really have any other friends outside of them.

Sighing, Rey reaches for her beer and takes a long pull, hoping against hope that the Dreadnaughts don’t score again - at least not while she’s drinking - as she’d rather not choke on beer. Luckily, they don’t score then or in the next twenty minutes it takes for Rey to complete her crossword and move onto the next one. 

She polishes off her beer and slips from her stool to get another one for herself - Snap is deep in a discussion with Marty and a few of the other patrons gathered at the opposite end of the bar - when a warm gust of balmy evening air brushes her bare legs. Instinctively - or reactively, really - she looks towards the door, expecting to see a familiar face of one of the regulars, but instead she finds herself looking at a stranger.

His dark hair is speckled with grey and his eyes are kind - warm and dark, they sweep over the length of the bar. It’s clear that he’s searching for someone, which is why Rey pulls her gaze away and lifts the false counter that bars customers from going behind the bar, thinking nothing of it. Strangers wander into the Millennium Falcon all of the time, though whether or not they stay is something else entirely. 

“Um, excuse me?” an unfamiliar voice says - presumably the stranger’s.

Rey stops digging through the beer cooler - honestly, what was Snap _doing_ before his shift instead of stocking things? - and looks up through her fringe at the customer. Pulling her chilled hands from the ice, she wipes the excess water on her jean shorts and plasters a customer-friendly smile on her face.

“Can I get you something?”

“Actually,” the man says, setting a thick manilla folder on the bar. He casts another look around the bar, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he takes in the establishment: the cracked leather booths, the wobbly tables, the dim lighting, and the scratched-to-hell hardwood floors. “I’m looking for someone. Do you happen to know where I can find a Rey?”

Her eyebrows raise ever so slightly as she regards him. “You’re looking at her.”

The man blinks at her as if she’s startled him with her response. “ _You’re_ Rey?” he says, more than a little incredulously. 

Despite herself, Rey scoffs, oddly offended by the note of surprise in his voice. She has no idea who this man is or what he’s doing at the Millennium Falcon, but she doesn’t appreciate the way he’s staring at her like she’s sprouted a third limb from her head. 

“Yeah,” she replies, folding her arms over her chest defensively. He doesn’t seem like a very intimidating man, but she withholds her full judgment until she finds out more about him. For all she knows, he could be a hit man, even if that seems highly unlikely. “What of it?”

“You’re a lot younger than I thought you’d be, is all.”

She narrows her eyes at him, annoyed by his sudden appearance in the bar yet eager to find out what it is that he wants. If he wanted money, he would’ve come right out and said it - debt collectors and their ilk were not uncommon at the Millennium Falcon, but Han and Chewie usually dealt with them, escorting them into the back office to discuss terms rather than duking it out in the main bar area. But if he doesn’t want money then what is he doing here? And why is he looking for her in particular?

Her curiosity wins out and she blurts out, “What do you want?”

His responding smile is full of patience and understanding, which lessens her irritation, but doesn’t completely alleviate her suspicions about his reason for being there. “I’m Wedge - Wedge Antilles,” he offers, holding out a hand for her to shake, which she does, because it’s the polite thing to do. 

It’s apparent from his expression that he expects his name to mean something to her, but when she doesn’t immediately respond with enthusiasm, the smile on his face falters a little bit. He clears his throat and continues, “I knew Han - he’s an old buddy of mine. We, uh, met during our time in the service.”

“Oh,” is all Rey can say because if there’s one subject that Han avoided discussing like the plague, it was his time in the military. The handful of times he did talk about it, he was drunker than a skunk and though it always started with laughter as he spun stories of thrilling heroics and utter foolishness, it always ended sourly, with Han skulking off to the back office, slamming the door behind him.

Rey tells the stranger - this Wedge Antilles - as much and he nods his head in quiet understanding. “He saved my ass more than a few times, you know,” he replies, and Rey can’t ignore the rush of emotion in his voice: gratitude and grief and something else that she can’t quite name.

Deep down, Rey knows she should be glad to hear what Wedge has to say. Eager, even, to learn more about Han. But with each story she hears, with every memory recalled, the reality becomes all the more clear to her: she didn’t know Han half as well as she thought she did, and it hurts her as much as it annoys her. Every new fact she learns about him is a microscopic shard of glass embedded beneath her skin, cutting deeper and deeper into her flesh until she can't remember what that part of her felt like without it. 

“Anyway,” Wedge says, clearing his throat again. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I have some important paperwork that I need you to verify.” At her confused look, he adds, “I’m an estate lawyer.”

“Estate lawyer?” She rolls the words around on her tongue, frowning. “I thought Chewie spoke to you last week. Before the funeral.”

“He did,” says Wedge, reaching for the folder resting on the bar between them. “As Han’s power of attorney, Chewbacca sat down with me and discussed the finer details of Han’s will. I assure you that all of his final affairs have been arranged and executed as Han wished.”

The furrow in her brow deepens as she stares at Wedge. “If everything is all squared away, then why are you talking to me?”

“Because there’s one matter that’s not.”

She raises her eyebrow. “And that would be…?”

“The bar,” he says simply. 

“The bar?” She blinks at him, confused. “Why would you need to talk to _me_ about the bar?”

The look he gives her is only the slightest bit patronizing, like he’s just written out the simplest of equations and expects her to put the numbers together to figure out the sum. Only her brain isn’t exactly operating at full capacity and her confusion is muddling her otherwise streamline thought process. 

The obvious doesn’t often go over her head, but when it does…

“He left it to you,” says Wedge slowly. 

Her first instinct is to laugh, which she does, a sharp, high-pitched sound that tears at her throat as it leaves her body. When he doesn’t start laughing with it, however, all of the blood rushes towards her feet, her head spins, and she feels like she’s going to be sick. 

She’s stocked. Taken aback. Totally and completely flabbergasted. Utterly gobsmacked. 

She certainly flounders for something to say, her mouth forming the words though her tongue is like lead in her mouth and stubbornly refuses to cooperate with her brain, so that unintelligible noises are the only sound she’s capable of making. 

At least for the first thirty seconds or so. Then the shock wears off and the full weight of his words slam down on her, the force of it driving the frog out of her throat and hurtling her sheer incredulity to the forefront of her mind. 

“What the _fuck_?” Rey all but screeches at Han’s poor friend, who, for his part, has remained completely unfazed for the duration of her minor conniption. 

When Wedge does speak, his voice is calm and reassuring and his gaze is steady and sure as he looks at her over the rim of his glasses. 

“Look, I understand that this is a lot to take in right now -” Rey has to bite down hard on her tongue to keep from interjecting a callously loud laugh. “So why don’t you come down to my office tomorrow morning? That way, we can discuss this at length without so many distractions. Besides, a good night’s sleep will help you clear your thoughts. I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

This time, she can’t help but let loose another peal of sarcastic laughter. A hundred and one different questions race through her mind, each one fighting for the spotlight, but her brain keeps circling back to the most pertinent of all: what the _fuck_ was Han thinking?

Wedge reaches into the breast pocket of his sports coat and hands her a business card. “How does eleven o’clock sound?”

Her capacity for speak still in minor meltdown mode, Rey nods, absently running her fingers over the raised letters on the card. “Yeah,” she says, her tongue darting out of her mouth to wet her lips. “Eleven sounds great.”

Before he leaves, Wedge surprises her by laying his hand over her much smaller one. The unusual gesture makes her raise her eyes to his face, searching the peculiar look he’s giving her for some hint at what he’s thinking. If she’s not mistaken, she sees pity in his eyes. 

“Everything will be okay,” he says in that same reassuring voice. He pats the back of her hand then withdraws, giving her a little wave as he makes his way towards the door. “See you tomorrow.”

As soon as he’s gone, Rey springs into action, grabbing the first bottle she can find and snatching one of the tumblers. She pours herself a generous heap, sloshes it around a little bit, and knocks it back in one go. 

“Rey?” says Snap, watching with cautious eyes as she refills the glass with three fingers worth of cheap scotch. 

She meets his gaze over the lip of the tumbler. “Don’t ask,” she says, tipping her head back and wincing at the dull burn of her throat.

* 

Poe hates working the lunch shift.

To him, it’s utterly pointless to keep the bar open during the daylight hours. It’s slow and boring, with little in the way of customers save for the same faithful few who drop in for a quick drink and some light albeit pleasant conversation before continuing about their day. The only upside is that he gets to bring his three year old Welsh Corgi, BB-8, with him and in all honesty, there’s no one else he would rather while away the hours with than his most faithful of companions. 

The dog in question is currently sitting at his feet, occasionally pressing the button of his wet nose against Poe’s calf as if reminding his owner that he, too, is dreadfully bored. Absentmindedly, Poe reaches down to scratch BB-8 behind the ears, which makes the dog whine happily and press his head further into the curve of Poe’s fingers. With his other hand, Poe jots down the snippy string of words, a slight smile on his face. He’s never been much of a lyricist, preferring to compose the melodies to the love songs that Jess writes, but on occasion, he gets a few good ideas. 

Today, it seems, is one of those days. 

Once the pen stops gliding across the page, his cramped scrawl left in its wake, he drops the pen on the counter and replaces his fingers on the neck of his guitar, which is draped across his lap. BB-8 whines at the loss of his master’s hand as Poe plucks out a few experimental notes, his brow furrowing as he tries to decide if he likes it or not. Even if he does, there is no way of telling if it’s actually good until he can play it for someone else. 

He wonders when Rey will get back from her appointment with the lawyer because she's always a good sounding board, offering an honest opinion when others would sugarcoat it to spare his feelings. It's one of the many reasons he appreciates her, even if what she says sometimes strikes a little too close to the heart. 

Poe strums the melody a few more times, his nimble fingers dancing over the strings with ease, and makes a few changes here and there. Eventually, the tune turns into the refrain from one of the first songs that he ever learned how to play on guitar, and he starts to hum along. At his feet, BB-8 tries to chime in, offering the occasional bark here and there.

“That’s pretty,” an unfamiliar voice says, startling Poe out of his deep concentration. “Did you write it?”

He spins on his bar stool to face the newcomer, glad that Chewie isn’t here to chide him for not paying attention to the door.

The first thing he notices is how bright the guy’s smile is: his lips, which are sinfully full, pull back to reveal into a genuinely charming smile; there’s no sleaze factor to his grin, no hint of arrogance. It’s pure, unadulterated sunshine, causing warmth to pool in his belly. Never mind the fact that the guy is totally handsome - a strong jaw, a broad, confident nose, and dark, glittering eyes that refract the light like two snippets of onyx; his smile simply amplifies his handsomeness. 

Poe’s heart skips several painful beats in his chest before he comes to a second realization: he’s staring quite openly at this guy and has yet to answer the question. 

“M-me?” he stammers, surprised by the sudden rush of heat that creeps up beneath the collar of his tee shirt. “No, I didn’t. Write it, I mean - that would be Radiohead. Anyway,” he continues, desperate to rid his voice of its nervous tremble - and wondering why in the hell he’s so nervous the first place. “What can I, uh, do for you?”

It’s the tall glass of handsome’s turn to get nervous. He fidgets, picking at the cuticle of his left hand, and his warm and friendly smile turns slightly sheepish as he mutters something under his breath. 

Poe blinks, a slight frown touching his lips as he struggles to hear what the guy is saying. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

The stranger clears his throat loudly, but when he speaks, the first few syllables are a little squeaky. For some reason, that endears him more to Poe. “I was walking around the block when I heard you playing, so I came in to see for myself…” he trails off, dropping his gaze for a moment as he tries to drum up a better excuse. “You see, I’m new to the neighborhood,” he adds, his words sounding as much like a question as it does a statement.

For a prolonged moment, Poe eyes him consideringly, taking in his freshly pressed shirt, the neat slacks, and the slightly too-combed state of his hair. Paired with the raw, nervous energy that he’s radiating hotter than a furnace, and the obvious dawns on Poe quite suddenly.

It’s so cute he can’t help but smile as he says, “You need a job.”

The strange breaths a long sigh of relief, some of his awkward tension draining away as he nods vigorously. “I need a job.”

Setting his guitar on the empty stool to his left, Poe slips from his seat and takes a few steps forward, extending a hand. “I’m Poe. Poe Dameron.”

The stranger’s grip is warm and firm, his skin soft and supple against Poe’s callused ones. 

“I’m Finn,” he replies, another one of those arrestingly bright, wide smiles appearing on his full lips. 

Poe gives his a hand a small squeeze before dropping it, caught in a serious dilemma. Technically speaking, they don’t need any new employees at the Millennium Falcon; it’s a small bar and the six of them - Chewie, Rey, Snap, Karé, Iolo, and himself - can handle the workload just fine. But Finn is cute and charming in a wide-eyed dreamer type of way.

And Poe? 

Poe is weak and thirsty, dangerously and pathetically so, especially when it comes to chance encounters with cute strangers in button ups. 

So even though he’s fairly certain that Chewie will rip him limb from limb when he finds out what Poe has done, Poe returns Finn’s grin and, unable to keep the little jolt of a thrill from spiking in the pit of his stomach, asks, “When can you start?”

Finn beams.


	3. Chapter Two

Finn has never possessed the deepest reservoir of patience, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt as anxious - or excited - as he does right now, watching the hours and minutes and seconds trickle by until his first shift at the bar begins. 

When he strolled into the Millennium Falcon the previous day, it was with the intention of getting a stiff drink after a long day of unsuccessful job hunting. Never in a million years did he think that he would get a job offer within the first five minutes of making the acquaintance of the charming bartender who called himself Poe. 

There’s a peculiar swooping feeling in his chest as he thinks of the man, the memory of that raspy voice and the fast-and-loose grin that made his dark eyes wrinkle at the corners turning his stomach into a puddle of molten goo. It’s ridiculous and stupid, and he feels like he’s fifteen again and crushing hard on his math tutor who was several years older than him.

The truth is, Finn has known plenty of guys who swaggered to the beat of their own ego, but there is something different about Poe’s confidence; he could see it in the goofy quirk of his mouth as it pulled into that wide grin and hear it in the gentle warmth of Poe’s voice. It’s not cocky, it’s self-assured. Like he knows exactly who he is and what he wants - and how to get it. And honestly? Finn thinks it might be the most attractive thing about the guy. 

It’s also the most dangerous and disarming and downright unpredictable thing about him.

Finn shakes his head, cutting off the flow of his own thoughts before they can run away with him. They’re about to be coworkers now, forced to work in close proximity to each other. Constantly in one another’s orbits. It’s silly to let his mind carry him away to such ridiculous heights because work relationships are _dangerous_ and besides, he doesn’t even know Poe. While there’s no denying that there was a definite spark between them, there’s a chance that he _might_ be reading a little too much into this. 

Overthinking the whole thing. Jumping the proverbial gun, if you will. 

But it’s hard to banish Poe from his thoughts when he knows he’ll be seeing the guy in just a few hours’ time. It doesn’t help that Poe’s got the voice of an angel (a sultry, slightly naughty angel whose halo might be just a little bit crooked) and the ass of Adonis, the combination of which makes it very, very difficult to focus on anything else work-related. 

Finn knows he’s dwelling on something of little consequence. He knows that his rampant thoughts are making his head spin in unnecessary circles with the sheer magnitude of what it all might mean - or not mean, for that matter. So he forces himself to close his eyes, pull in a deep breath through his nose, and count to ten. 

There are much more important things for him to concentrating on at the moment, such as what he should say to his new boss that will properly express the depth of his gratitude for being hired. Or what tee shirt will best display his biceps. You know, just in case. 

Finn sighs heavily and meets his own dark gaze in the mirror. “You can do this,” he mutters to his reflection, trying not to feel _too_ betrayed by the doubtful look reflected back at him. “Wow them with your charm. _Woo_ them with your pizazz.”

The second the word comes out of his mouth, Finn groans, dropping his head into his waiting hands. “Pizazz?” he repeats to himself, curling his fingers against his scalp. “ _Really_?” 

_Oh, God, this is going to be _terrible_._

__

* 

She doesn’t feel numb, but everything is a little dull. Almost like someone has pressed the mute button on all her senses, dedicating all of her brainpower to helping her comprehend the depth of what Han has done.

He gave her the Millennium Falcon. 

He _willed_ it to her. 

In her hands, Han saw the bar’s future. He believed in her ability to continue his legacy. He _trusted_ her with it. Her, the girl who wandered into his bar when she was sixteen years old, not quite helpless, but definitely lost, with little to no direction in her life. He gave her a chance when no one else would spare her a second glance, and it made all of the difference in her life. She doesn’t know where she would be without Han - or who she would be or what she would be doing if he hadn’t picked her up by the bootstraps, dusted off her jacket, and taught her what it meant to be proud of yourself. 

The thought makes her head spin dizzily all throughout the subway ride back to the bar - _her_ bar. Her mouth goes a little dry, and Rey does her level best not to give into the slippery ropes of nausea that slither through her stomach; she closes her eyes and leans her clammy forehead against the cool glass. 

In the last 24 hours, her entire world has been flipped upside down and the fallout isn’t exactly the easiest with which to come to terms. 

Everyone, including Rey, thought that Chewie would take over after Han’s untimely death. From the get-go, they were partners. From the moment Han acquired the Falcon in a high stakes (and not exactly legal) poker game, Chewie had been by Han’s side, assisting in the day-to-day running and overall management of the place. The only person who knew the ins and outs of the bar as well as Han was Chewie, which is why Rey is still a little baffled by Han’s decision. And even more so by Chewie’s acquiescence to it - a fact that Wedge assured her of numerous times during their three-plus hour discussion concerning Han’s choice before he pushed the paperwork across the desk to her for her to sign. 

Reactively, Rey flexes her fingers, the memory of the fountain pen between her fingers still as fresh as the smudge of ink on the side of her left hand. 

The Millennium Falcon is hers now. The papers she signed in Wedge’s office confirmed that. Made it legal. _Official_.

She releases the breath she wasn’t aware she had been holding, ignoring the creeping sense of foreboding that tip-toes its way up her spine. 

She can do this. 

Maybe not on her own, but she can do it; Han believed in her, otherwise he wouldn’t have left his bar to her. 

Maybe she’ll have to cash in on all of those favors owed to her by her friends to get it done, but she won’t fail. It’ll be hard, but it’s possible. Plausible, even, if she doesn’t give up. Which she won’t because if there’s one thing she absolutely refuses to do, it’s disappoint the one person who ever believed in her. The one person who saw past all of the scars and the calluses and gave her a chance. 

She won’t let Han down, even if it kills her.

(Which, in all likelihood, it will. But she doesn’t want to focus on that right now as losing her lunch in a crowded subway car is hardly how she wants to start her afternoon, especially since she spent her last five bucks on a hotdog.)

* 

Poe is a dead man walking.

These last steps towards the Falcon’s back door might be the final one he ever takes. The stale, reeking air of the alleyway might be the only breathes he takes as a free, living human being. 

He gulps, though the knot of dread in his throat makes it difficult to swallow the bile, so he chokes a little bit on his own idiocy. 

It takes a few moments to gather his wits about him. To collect himself, his courage, and say goodbye to life as he knows it: his small apartment, his faithful dog, the few friends that he refers to as his family when he’s talking to cute strangers. His fingers curl around the key in his hand, the jagged teeth cutting deep into the fleshy part of his palm as he grips it for dear life. 

Licking his lips, his anxiety spiking to critical levels, Poe unlocks the back door and slips into the small kitchen that the bar hasn’t used since the early 90’s; it’s a storage space now, with a huge and ancient ice machine occupying most of the space. Chewie sits at one of the old counters, a pair of bifocals perched on the bridge of his nose to better see the block of wood he’s whittling. 

With a knife. 

Poe isn’t a coward by any means, having served as a fighter pilot in the armed forces for nearly ten years. He knows all about danger; he’s flown into it head on without a moment’s hesitation. Stared down the risks and accepted them for what they were, regardless of the consequences, of the costs. He’s been shot at, shot through, shot down, and he came out the other side, a little damaged but still in one piece. 

But none of that matters when he’s looking at Chewie, who is staring at him unblinkingly as he drags the carving knife along the fresh block of wood. Chewie, who spent 25 years of his life in the Special Forces. Chewie, who once punched a man so hard that he dislocated the guy’s jaw, broke his nose, and shattered his orbital socket with one well-placed, incredibly large and extremely powerful fist. Chewie, who smiles at him in greeting, but makes no move to murder Poe right where he stands, which is more than a little unsettling, but Poe notices a blessing when he sees one. 

So he takes the opportunity to duck out of the kitchen before Chewie can change his mind and throttle him through the brick wall, choosing instead to go about his opening duties. 

He jumps when the jukebox springs to life ten minutes after he turned the damned thing on, and he nearly pisses himself when the mail man knocks on the window, gesturing towards the still locked front door, a fistful of envelopes and liquor catalogues in his hand. After an hour of this ridiculous and skittish behavior, Chewie has yet to leave the kitchen, which leads Poe to believe that his boss doesn’t know what he’s done. That he didn’t see the note that Poe scrawled and taped to the edge of the computer screen in the back office. 

Poe relaxes, but only marginally, resigning himself to the fact that while his death will not happen within the next twenty minutes, there’s still enough time for it to occur. That or Chewie is waiting until _after_ his shift is finished and Rey shows up to relieve him to do the deed. It’s not much of an assurance, but at least he still has a few more hours left to live. 

So even though it’s only a little after twelve o’clock in the afternoon, Poe goes ahead and pours himself a drink, indulging in his one allotted shift drink just a smidge earlier than usual. 

He’s still nursing his bourbon when Rey slips into the bar around two in the afternoon. She doesn’t say anything as she ducks behind the bar and stows her bag beneath it, only nods her head in silent greeting before she disappears into the back - most likely to talk to Chewie. 

Despite himself, Poe cringes after her. She looks ragged. Run down, even, the circles under her eyes darker and more pronounced than usual. Like she hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a while. He frowns, wondering if her nightmares have come back and she’s just not telling him. For her sake, he hopes not; having to hear about them second hand was enough to keep him awake in his own bed. He couldn’t imagine experiencing them firsthand. 

Poe considers going after her, pulling her aside and making her talk, but at the sudden sound of Chewie’s deep baritone of a voice, he hesitates, not wanting to stir the pot any more than he already has with his reckless decision to offer Finn a job when there’s not exactly a position available to him. Though the chance is slim, there’s every possibility that that’s what the pair is discussing right now, which is why Poe retreats a handful of steps back to where he had been sitting, idly composing a melody on the back of a cocktail napkin, when Rey had first come into the bar. 

Neither Rey nor Chewie emerge from the back of the bar for the remainder of his shift, though he _does_ overhear snippets of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter - a few times from Chewie but only once from Rey. What they’re talking about, he can only guess at, but when Chewie lets loose a growling laugh, he prays that they’re not planning his imminent death. If they are, he hopes it’s a quick one. 

“Rey?” he calls tentatively after the clock strikes four. 

“Yeah?” she calls back, her voice oddly muffled. The reason becomes clear when she appears in the doorway, a sandwich held loosely between her hands. Gone is the sickly hue to her skin; her eyes are a little brighter, even if the bags beneath them are just as purple and prominent as they were earlier. “What’s up?” she prompts through a mouthful of turkey and cheese. 

“It’s four,” he says, gesturing towards the clock mounted next to an old felt dartboard. “End of my shift. Just thought I’d let you know.” 

Her eyes narrow a little bit. “Are you okay? Chewie said you’ve been acting funny all day long and I have to say that I agree.” She licks some mayo from her thumb, eyeing him inscrutably. “So what’s going on?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Nothing?" 

“Not a thing,” he says, doing his best to sound as nonchalant as possible - and failing spectacularly. Rey has always been able to see through his bullshit just like he’s always been able to see past her rough and tough exterior to the caring and warm person that she truly is. 

Her responding smile is nothing short of simpering. “You sure about that?” she asks, arching a brow. “There’s nothing you need to get off your chest? Nothing at all?” 

He makes a show of frowning at her. “What makes you think that there is?" 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she begins, giving a little shrug of her shoulders. “Maybe it’s because you look like you’re about to shit your pants if I so much as sneeze in your general direction, and you only get like that when you’re trying to hide something from me.” She flashes a triumphant grin, taking another bite of her sandwich. “So - spill.” 

Poe _could_ tell her and risk her telling Chewie, who clearly has no idea about what he did or else Poe’s limbs would be strewn across the bar, his blood decorating the walls; he has no idea why he was so concerned about Chewie’s reaction when he showed up for work this morning as Poe hasn’t told a single soul, even _if_ the other man is scarily good at finding things out before it becomes common knowledge. Or he could simply ignore her probing questions, collect his shift pay from the cash register, and dip out before she can corner him. But she’d bother him later, enlisting the help of Kare and Iolo to aid her in her pestering of him, which is a headache he wants to avoid if at all possible. 

So Poe sighs, lifting a hand to scrub over his unshaven face - and then the door opens behind him, ushering in a warm breeze from outside. Relief washes over him and Poe turns to greet his saving grace - and the first customer of the day, for that matter - only to realize that his doom is now stands before him, impeccably dressed in an off-white V-neck that contrasts nicely to his dark skin and a pair of tight-but-comfortably-so skinny jeans. 

Poe’s mouth doesn’t exactly fall open at the sight of Finn, but his capacity for speech seemingly vanishes, leaving him to gape at Finn, who is smiling back at him. 

“Oh, hey there.” Rey’s voice drifts from somewhere over his shoulder. “What can I get you?” she asks, bracing her hands against the bar. 

The warning bells begin to sound in Poe’s head, all of which are declaring an imminent meltdown in _three…_

“Oh, I’m not here for a drink,” answers Poe, sliding his sunglasses off his face, folding them up, and tapping them against the palm of his hand. “I’m here to start my training.” 

_Two…_

“Training?” Rey wipes her hands on her jean shorts. She moves from the periphery of Poe’s vision to the front and center, her petite frame doing little to block his downfall from view. 

“Yeah,” Finn begins, the uncertainty in his voice hanging thick in the air. His brow furrows slightly. “When I was hired yesterday -” Inwardly, Poe winces, especially when he sees Rey’s flinch of surprise “-I was told to come it at four.” His gaze cuts from Rey to Poe, confusion glittering in his dark eyes. “That _is_ what you said, Poe. Right?” 

_One…_

“I’m sorry, what?” Rey blinks at the poor guy a few times. “Did you just that Poe _hired_ you and told you to come in to train at four? When his shift is _over_?” 

He can feel the heat of her gaze as it slices over to him, burning holes into the top of his head; he can practically feel his stomach dropping out of his ass. 

Finn bites his lip as he says, “Should I not have?” 

“I hate to do this to you--” 

“Finn.” 

“Finn,” she says, smiling tightly. Her hand comes down hard on Poe’s wrist, clamping it in a harsh vice. “Right. Will you excuse us for a moment? It seems I have some business to discuss with my friend here.” To anyone else, the warmth in her words might seem like kindness, but Poe hears the underlying fire in them and fears the blaze. 

Apparently, so does Finn as he shoots Poe a look of concern, but nods his head. “Uh, sure. I’ll just - uh, wait here.” 

Flashing one last smile at Finn, Rey pulls on Poe’s wrist so hard, he makes a strangled noise of pain in the back of his throat. When she speaks, it’s in a low hiss and unless he’s mistaken, there’s a small hiss of steam issuing from her mouth as she growls, “What did you _do_?” 

* 

The message is short and concise, stamped out on a fresh sheet of crisp parchment that features the company letterhead. It’s not overly detailed or laden with endless amount of jargon. It’s clean and simple, not even long enough to take up a whole line’s worth of space on the paper. Not that any of that matters because it’s not the presentation of the information that ignites a fire in his veins. 

No, it’s the information itself. 

With effort, he forces himself to remain calm. It would be so easy to fold to the sudden onslaught of anger, to give into the rage and react explosively, but he’s better than a petty outburst. 

That, and he doesn’t want to give _her_ the satisfaction of watching him go to pieces at the first sign of bad news. He’s got a reputation to uphold within the company, after all, and he won’t add any more fuel to the fire. 

He pulls his eyes from the page to meet her steely gaze. “Are you certain?” he asks in a carefully measured calm. 

“Quite,” is the clipped, polished reply. “You know as well as I that we have contacts in the licensing offices. Nothing passes through their channels without our express knowledge.”

The grimace is difficult to fight, but he makes a valiant attempt to keep the disquiet he feels resonating in his chest from his face. The result is a deep frown. 

“When did this happen?”

“The paperwork was signed today. Antilles dropped it by the clerk’s office just a little after five.”

He glances at the clock, which reads 5:30. He’s impressed, but not by the company’s speedy discovery of the documents. 

The mention of Antilles is surprising, to say the very least. He didn’t know that she could afford such a good and well-respected lawyer. Perhaps she swindled the old man with her wide brown eyes and tragic backstory. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Can we put a stop to it?”

“Do we _want_ to?” she counters before hastily - and begrudgingly - adding, “Sir.”

Anyone else and he would have dismantled them with a few well-chosen words, but that never worked with her. She’s not such an easily intimidated woman, and it’s for that very reason - and that reason alone - that he doesn’t hate her the way he loathes Hux. He’s never encountered such a weak and spineless jellyfish of a man. 

“It _would_ be satisfying to see her fail,” he says, considering Phasma’s words. 

“Not to mention cheaper and far less of a headache for everyone involved,” she replies in her clear, ringing accent. 

“Indeed,” he says, looking back at the print out on his desk. The words spark the undercurrent of anger that swims in his bloodstream, waiting for the right moment to flare to life. Beneath his desk, he curls his fingers into a fist. 

Phasma clears her throat. “Is that all?”

“Yes.” He gives a dismissive flutter of his hand. “Feel free to relay our little, ah, chat to Hux. I’m sure he’ll want to know the outcome.”

Each word is sharply edged, but if they cut Phasma at all, she shows no sign of it. “Quite,” she says again before giving a small bow of her head and slinking out of his office, the click of her heels still echoing off the walls even after she’s left. 

It’s only once he’s certain that she’s out of earshot that he lets the wave of anger wash over him, sweeping him away on its all-consuming current as easily as he sweeps aside all of the belongings on his desk. 

He manages to take out a lamp, one of his tablets, a coffee mug, and the framed photo of his mother before the tide of his anger ebbs and he’s left in the middle of the wreckage, a flush high in his cheeks and his heart hammering a fierce tattoo against his rib cage.


End file.
